


Fantasy

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, the unicorn t-shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: It was the night before his life would change forever, and Quentin wasnothiding behind his solo cup.
Relationships: (Pre), Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/gifts).



> Thank you for all you do! <3 <3 <3

Quentin Coldwater was _not_ hiding behind a solo cup. If anyone said that, they would be lying, Julia was a total liar.

He was sitting on a really comfy bean bag chair, that’s right he _preferred_ them lumpy like that, it made them way more comfortable, and the music was just the right volume, he could absolutely hear his own thoughts, and he was just — suddenly like super engrossed in the pattern at the bottom of his cup of beer (which was totally great, by the way. Quentin loved that brand. His cup was still full because he was _savoring it,_ that was all), because how did they even get those ridges? Was it a pour mold? Or like, a stamp or something?

These questions fully occupied Quentin’s mind. The reason he was staring at his cup had everything to do with them, and absolutely nothing to do with the guy dancing by the window.

In fact, Quentin hadn’t even noticed him. He wasn’t looking at the subtle curve of his waist into his hips where his unicorn t-shirt was tucked into the smartest pair of patterned slacks Quentin could have dreamed up. He had snuck zero glances at the messy, perfect mop of dark curls framing a strong jawline. And he had absolutely no awareness of how, once Unicorn Guy had noticed him looking, he’d grinned and started showing off even more.

Because none of that was bothering Quentin at all, he was being entirely honest when he signalled to Julia that he was leaving in order to refill his drink. It’s just that when he passed his room on the way to the kitchen (it was not on the way to the kitchen, and of course Quentin knew this, he was just going the _long way_ to the kitchen), he got the sudden, unexpected urge to dive back into his favorite Fillory edition. It’s not that the party was dirt-boring or that he’d embarrassed himself with Unicorn Guy. No, the party was _fun,_ in fact, it was _so fun_ that Quentin felt he ought to calm himself down a little.

That’s why Julia found him, twenty minutes later, in his room, nose buried in a well-loved book that still smelled comfortingly like his dad’s house.

“So, where’d he go? The uh, the guy in the killer slacks,” she trailed off playfully, holding up a not-so-subtle “OK” hand and jumping up to sit on the bed with him.

Quentin looked back to his book. “Yeah, you _just_ missed him.”

“And?”

He pretended to think for a moment. “Not my type.” Which, being the blatant lie they both knew it to be, he was hoping she would take as an end to the discussion.

He should have known better.

“Dude,” Julia started with an incredulous eyebrow tilt, sliding to lay down next to him on her stomach, “he was wearing a _unicorn_ t-shirt, he’s clearly into fantasy.” Which, being the blatant hyperbole they both knew it to be, she was probably hoping would get him to talk about it more.

When he didn’t, her eyes narrowed in calculation, and that was. Only slightly worrying. It meant she was reconfiguring her method of attack, and no one could know where she would strike next. Before Quentin could react, Julia had plucked the first edition _Fillory and Further: Book One_ from his hands, and was smoothing her glittery miniskirt down over her stockings as she stood.

“How would you know, anyway,” she said, a telling smile plucking at the corners of her lips as she flipped idly — and gently, he was glad to see — through the pages, “you’re in here, reading _obscure_ fantasy. And he’s out there. So.” Shutting the book with finality, she extended it towards him. Quentin hesitated, but reached out, and before he could grab it, that smile burst back to the surface and Julia whirled around and was out the door with a squealing _Leave it to me!_

Quentin blinked after her, then sighed and sat back against his headboard. There was no stopping Jules when she got something in her head like this. He had learned it was best to sit back and let her concoct a plan, as opposed to try and stop it, and have it bulldoze ahead regardless except with twice the vehemence.

He didn’t have long to wait before the fruits of her labor ripened and fell into his lap, or rather, onto his doorstep, where Unicorn Guy was softly knocking against his open door.

Suppressing a sigh, Quentin stood and stepped towards him, stopping a distance that was — it was awkward, wasn’t it, this was awkward, was he gonna actually come in or not? Oh — “Hi. Uh, sorry, you can, you can come in,” he floundered, staring like he could see what Julia had told the guy if he just _looked hard enough._

Unicorn Guy smiled disarmingly, finally stepping into the room and holding out Quentin’s book. “Your friend asked me to come give this to you,” he explained, but unfortunately, he did not bother to explain the rest of the situation, which consisted to an alarming degree of Unicorn Guy sliding his hands into his pockets and giving Quentin an obvious once-over, his small smile going amused.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. She...seems to think I require help when I want company.” Through the glass door, Julia gave him a very enthusiastic two-thumbs-up. He gave her an acidic smile.

“Do you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, no.” Unicorn Guy laughed. If they were gonna be, like, talking, Quentin should probably stop calling him Unicorn Guy. “I meant, do you want company? Right now?”

“Um.” _Well,_ his thoughts said, _no, no we do not want company right now._ But he also — didn’t want to say that, actually, not if it meant Unicorn Guy would leave, and he _really_ oughta stop just calling him — “What’s your name?”

“Eliot, Waugh,” said Eliot Waugh, with just enough of a stumble to be noticeable, like he hadn’t quite meant to say his full name but decided to commit once it was happening. He offered a hand, and Quentin chuckled as he took it (because who _shakes hands_ when you meet someone in their bedroom at a college party).

“Quentin Coldwater.”

Eliot’s face went impressed as he shook Quentin’s hand slowly. “Now that’s a name,” he said wryly, and Quentin shrugged.

“So, you were a Fillory kid?” Eliot asked, releasing Quentin to sit at the very edge of the very foot of his bed. Before he had the chance to figure out the best way to answer that, Eliot was already taking in the bedsheets he had sat on, the posters on the wall, the multiple box sets, full series, special editions, and bonus versions he had carefully organized on his bookshelf, and he mused, “Oh, not so much a kid then, huh? Still a fan.”

“Yeah,” Quentin muttered, prepared to drop it like he’d had to so many times before, and carefully put the first edition back in its rightful place. Only then did Eliot’s words catch up with him, and their lack of ridicule or dismissal — _you were a Fillory kid,_ he’d said, and if Quentin wasn’t mistaken, it almost sounded like there was an unspoken “too” at the end of it.

He sat back on the bed, folding himself up by the headboard with the weight of Eliot’s curious gaze sending equally uncomfortable and excited prickles down his spine. He tucked his hair behind his ear. It didn’t stay. “You know Fillory?”

Eliot scoffed. “Who doesn’t know Fillory? Anyone who’s into fantasy has spent time down that wormhole, guaranteed. And I mean, I’m wearing a unicorn t-shirt, I’m _clearly_ into fantasy,” he said, showing off his shirt with the same note of dryness Julia had used.

“Huh, that’s what she said,” came unfortunately out of Quentin’s mouth.

“Come again?”

“Oh! No — um.” He laughed, at a loss for how to salvage the moment, but Eliot started laughing too, so maybe that was alright. “It’s just that my friend Julia, um, she’s the one who gave you the book, and earlier she was all trying to get me to go talk to you, and she said that too, like those exact words. So, y’know, uh — that, that is. _What_ she said. So I was surprised. Coincidence, ha.” By the time he’d finished, the tips of his cheeks felt a little hot. Hopefully it was dark enough that Eliot wouldn’t be able to tell.

With a gleam in his eye that made Quentin a little nervous, Eliot leaned forward, planting his hands on the bed. “Well, Martin,” he said in a serious, hushed voice and accent pitched towards somewhere England-adjacent, “coincidences _aren’t_ always magic.”

Except that — maybe sometimes, they were, just a little bit.

As much as Quentin loved that quote from Jane (it wasn’t her most famous line, but it was up there, and it had thematic relevance that really resonated within some circles about the idea of growing up in — anyway), he found himself enjoying it an infinite amount more when, the next day, after a boring interview with someone who had an interesting clock, he stepped through a thicket and found himself somewhere _else,_ somewhere warm and welcoming, somewhere with stately buildings and winding pathways and a pale stone sign, atop which perched a familiar face.

Eliot hopped down as Quentin approached, a delighted look on his face as he puffed on a cigarette and gave him a once-over like he had last night. He pulled a black and white card out of his pocket, flipping it to show Quentin his name neatly inked on the other side.

“Quentin Coldwater,” he enunciated with a grin, “I think you’re going to like it here.”


End file.
